


Christmas Caper: After Hours

by Mz_Mallow



Category: Disney's House of Mouse (Cartoon), Goof Troop
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Job, Enthusiastic Consent, House of Mouse treated as the same continuity as Goof Troop but ~10 years later, I admit there's a certain transgressive thrill to taking these OG Disney characters of 80+ years, I re-watched some Goof Troop to refresh my memory, Internalized Homophobia, I’ll never write anything as nuts as Disney canon, M/M, Peg not physically in story but calls on the phone and mentioned frequently, Swingers, and making them bone, hey let's try swinging, is it so weird to imagine that to spice up their 30th anniversary she might say, it involved a plane a jungle island and five other people in elaborate costumes with rubber masks, reference to masturbation, sex is safe and realistic (aside from some cartoon physics and them y'know being cartoon anthros), she made Pete do feats of strength and dropped him into a live volcano, somehow this became like a Goofus and Gallant approach to showing consent and safe sex, to spice up their 20th marriage anniversary Peg orchestrated a kidnapping plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-24 18:37:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20019166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mz_Mallow/pseuds/Mz_Mallow
Summary: House of Mouse (season 3) episode 45, “Pete’s Christmas Caper”: When Mortimer uses mistletoe to try to force Minnie into a kiss, he gets instant karma: a kiss from Pete instead. That’s Disney canon.This fic: Mortimer realizes, to his surprise, that he kinda liked the kiss he got… and approaches Pete about it after Club hours. What follows is decidedly not Disney.





	Christmas Caper: After Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a post on Tumblr, including a clip from "House of Mouse": https://perpetuallurkernazanin.tumblr.com/post/184586761925/pete-feminist-ally-and-gay-rights-hero  
> ... Look at the notes on it.
> 
> The basic idea that latched onto my brain is: Mortimer is sleazy, a sexual harasser and misogynist (this is just Disney canon), and Pete used to be like that, but he's trying to be better... and especially after decades of being married to Peg, he's matured a lot. I wanted to write that character study. (But also I wanted to write smut. LMAO)
> 
> Contains brief reference to toxic ideas surrounding consent and sexual relationships that Mortimer has internalized and not yet examined... so though the contents of the story are entirely consensual (excepting reference to the Disney canonical non-consensual kiss that inspired it), be aware of that.
> 
> Story takes place in 2002-ish (I hand-waved Pistol's age a bit... or maybe she's so smart she started college at 17). There's reference to a certain sex term (you'll know it when you see it) that was coined in a "Savage Love" column in 2001.

Mortimer stumbled through a door into an empty, darkened room. The cotton-gloved fingers of one hand squeaked inaudibly against shiny white paint as he clutched at the doorframe on the way through; his other hand scrabbled at his throat as he gagged.

The peals of derisive laughter that chased him down the hallway—those were only in his head. He realized that as soon as he was fully inside, slouched out-of-sight against the wall beside the door. He might have heard the muffled slap of gloved-palm-against-palm as he retreated—Minnie rewarding Pete’s dirty trick with a high-five, the stuck-up chilly bitch. But aside from that and his own retching, there had been no sound in response to the incident. And no sound reached his straining ears now, except the distant drone of Christmas songs on vinyl and general conversation. He’d fully expected to hear mockery in response to his humiliation… but it had only happened in his imagination.

The wet heat of Pete’s tongue inside his mouth, though— _that_ had been entirely real.

Grimacing, Mortimer stuck out his tongue for the umpteenth time and wiped it against the backs of his gloves, trying to replace the taste of another man’s mouth with the dry rasp of cotton. Even then, he couldn’t get rid of the sensation of Pete’s mouth pressing against his. The memory burned against his lips and the back of his throat like the scorched shape of an iron on dry polyester.

Anger throbbed in his temples. He took a side-step to face a bookshelf and hooked his fingers into the spines of three books, yanking them onto the floor to land in an unsatisfying rustling thud. He spun around to kick an end-table (and when the lamp on it wobbled, lunged to rescue it from a fall—a little disarray was one thing, but if he destroyed a piece of furniture he’d have a whole ‘nother set of problems with Pete.) He clenched his fists, punched downwards against the air in a show of frustration and disgust meant only for himself, and stalked out of the room and towards the clubhouse’s exit.

His feet didn’t take him out of the club, somehow. His feet took him into the hanging, elevated guts of the now-emptied theater. And there he stayed, thinking.

His anger was fading. The sensory memory wouldn’t. He found himself thinking about the kiss even more. It wasn’t the shock of having another man’s tongue down his throat that stuck with him most.

It was the way Pete’s huge hands had gripped his waist, his pinkies pressing into Mortimer’s butt-cheeks while his thumbs brushed against the lower edge of his ribcage.

It was the way Pete had thrust his upper body forward as he had pulled Mortimer’s hips towards him; like the ocean’s undertow, as if only the civilized surroundings prevented him from pulling Mortimer’s body completely underneath his own.

It was… it was…

Holy _smokes_. It was the most passionate kiss Mortimer had ever had. And he’d been snogged by Clarabelle that same evening.

So, against his better judgement, Mortimer sat in the dimmed theater. Waited.

And when the distant scrapes and echoes of people hobnobbing had faded away, and when his anxiety grew until it overcame his reluctance, he went up to Pete’s office. The door was closed. He gave it a single smart rap with his knuckles, more than half hoping that chance had taken away the possibility of what he was thinking of saying and doing.

A sonorous “Come in” sounded through the door. Pete was in. _Dammit_.

Squeezing the doorknob in his palm, edging the door open, Mortimer felt a force opposing him. Fate itself was orchestrating to stop him; what a relief! But as he pushed the door through and past the resistance, he saw that it was actually a toppled-over black boot, tangled in the flotsam of a discarded red velvet coat and a black leather belt bearing a buckle larger than his head.

Closing the door behind him, so carefully the latch barely made a sound as it clicked home, Mortimer turned around slowly. Pausing a moment before he lifted his eyes, he took in the room through his other senses: the heavy silence granted by thick walls, the acrid tang of stale cigar smoke, a dark undertone like bitter black tea that must be the accumulated presence of Pete himself.

Pete was seated behind his desk, resting his cast-iron-heavy jaw atop his folded arms, muttering something about presents. His demeanor projected the despair of a hundred shopping carts rolled out the back of a poorly-secured tractor-trailer and scattered across a parking lot.

As Mortimer stepped away from the door, Pete’s head rose. His eyebrows quirked up in the same smooth motion, his lips parting just barely with surprise. Then his eyelids sank into a cynical squint, and his brow sank even more heavily, and his lower jaw set into his characteristic surly pout.

Mortimer stood with his spine straightened. Heels together, chin out, hands clasped behind his back.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said. Hearing the words project out into the room and sink into the wood paneling, he felt a pang of shame at their smallness, combined with a wash of relief that the quaver concealed deep in his chest didn’t reach his voice.

“For?” Pete prompted, the single word plunging deep like a cinderblock dropped into the ocean.

“Tryin’ta… kiss Minnie.”

At that, Pete’s face split into a crooked grin, baring a tooth the size and shape of a domino. He leaned forward over the desk, and Mortimer saw he had removed his Santa costume beard as well as the coat and hat and boots, had stripped down to a thin white cotton undershirt.

“That’s all you’ve got to say for yourself?” Pete jutted his lip theatrically, a look that was half-moue and half-sneer. “Dress it up a little. It’s Christmas.”

Mortimer rolled his eyes, feeling uncomfortably like a bratty child. “I apologize for being rude. And uh… uncouth?”

Pete watched him unflinchingly.

“… And for… forcing what I wanted on someone… instead of listening to what they wanted.”

Pete’s grin didn’t lose its mocking twist, but his eyes softened with the shadow of a genuine smile.

“Ain’t that pretty,” he purred. “Minnie’s the one ‘should hear it. But sweet of you to want to say it to me too.” Pete leaned back into his chair, taking his eyes off Mortimer with a pointed air of finality. “Just don’t let me hear about it happening again.”

Mortimer stood his ground. And waited.

Pete reached for a stack of papers on the desk, flipping through and peering at the corners.

Mortimer cleared his throat.

One of Pete’s tiny, tufted ears flicked. His face stayed angled down at the desk, but his eyes lifted to peer darkly at Mortimer.

Mortimer’s voice came out in a petulant twang. “Don’t you have something to say to me?”

“’Bout what?”

Mortimer cleared his throat again. “You owe _me_ an apology.” This time when he spoke he was pleased with the self-possessed-yet-accusatory tone he managed, and raised his volume. “I’m talking about that kiss.”

Pete sat back in his chair, eyes widening ever-so-slightly.

Mortimer echoed Pete’s backwards shift by leaning forward, poised on the balls of his feet. “You forced what you wanted on someone else, too. Didn’t you?”

There was a breathless pause, a “one-Mississippi”-counted second of utter stillness.

Then Pete laughed.

His shoulders heaved up and down with the force of his brayed _Ha! Ha!_ He sucked in a long, grating breath and scrubbed at his face with a hand. “What I wanted? You thought that was about what I wanted?”

His hands hit the top of the desk with the force of symphonic tympani. He stood in one fluid movement; not laughing anymore. “That was karma,” he snarled. “Don’t think I haven’t seen you dogging every lady around here since day one. It was time you got a taste of payback. That’s all.”

Moment of truth. Mortimer sucked in a breath through his teeth. He thought of the way Pete had gripped his pelvis, the force of that kiss, the depth, the lingering nature of it.

“And what if _I_ liked it?” Mortimer said.

Without changing expression, Pete cocked his head to the side. An incongruous thought sprang to the back of Mortimer’s mind: _huh. Looks like he is a dog after all._

With tectonic slowness, Pete walked around the desk, his gaze resting on Mortimer, unblinking and somber as a graveyard statue.

Mortimer stood firm, holding eye-contact with a gaze just as steady.

Finally, Pete stood over Mortimer, forcing him to tilt his face upwards.

Pete’s lip curled. He spoke in a gravelly, abysmally low murmur. “Sometimes looking at you is like looking at a little, scrawny, distorted funhouse-type of a…” His shoulders sagged, his face falling into a weary expression of surrender, “…mirror.”

Mortimer blinked.

“You and Minnie. You go way back, yeah? Me too.” Pete’s chest swelled and sank with a sigh. He paused a moment before continuing. “The things I used to say about her. Things I used to say _to_ her. The way I’d treat her…” All at once he looked his full age. “ _Mmp._ I’m glad nobody got it all on film.”

 _Wait… was Pete saying Minnie was his ex, too?_ That was an unsavory thought. Mortimer squinted up at him, defiantly.

Pete glanced down, caught Mortimer’s glare. He turned his back, shambled back to the far side of the desk and sat in the chair again, slouching like a sack of sand. The wood creaked with strain.

“I’ve got your number,” Pete said. “I know what it’s like.” He leaned forward, warming to his topic. “You’ve got everything going for you. You’re not afraid of anything. Sure, you’re scared shitless of heights—but you can hide that. You’re on the football team. Dating a cheerleader. Your friends on the team say you’re MVP. And then you’re having _thoughts_ about some of ‘em, _feelings_ about them, and you’re scared shitless again. You hide that too. You’ve got to be tougher than everyone else. You’ve got something to prove. And what’s easier than picking on a sweet little mouse-lady?”

Pete was the world’s shittiest fortune-teller. Either that, or he had hijacked the conversation to confess his own emotions, and that wasn’t what Mortimer had come for. “I’m more of a track-and-field man myself,” he shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

All at once Pete was on his feet again, back around the desk. He approached so quickly, stopped so close, that Mortimer bounced off his belly and had to throw a foot backwards to catch his balance.

“I don’t care what you like. Just stop bothering the girls in my club!” Pete barked, making Mortimer’s ears twitch involuntarily. Pete paused a moment to let that sink in. Then, a sly glance. In a measured tone, he added, “And if what I said before was on the mark at all, I got a suggestion. Might help you find some clarity.” He leaned in close, directing a softly rumbling bass murmur directly into the satellite-dish of Mortimer’s ear. “A good dicking-down.”

The nearness of Pete’s body, his words, the way his voice and breath caressed Mortimer’s ear… it was like the kiss all over again. Mortimer suppressed a tremble.

When Pete drew back, Mortimer pinned him with a pointed look and said one word.

“Well?”

“Well?” Pete echoed.

“Well. You’re dressed as Santa, aren’t you?” Technically, Pete was only wearing the red velvet pants, with an undershirt and crew socks, but whatever. “It _is_ Christmas,” Mortimer taunted. “Are you going to just tell me what’d be good for me? Or are you in a giving type of a mood?”

Pete took a step back, mouth working around formless words. “Me?” he managed, fingers of both hands turning in to point towards his chest.

Mortimer inclined his head in a deliberate half-nod.

“Now?” Incredulity made Pete’s voice dip and rise like a Blue Angel.

Mortimer stood his ground, but his heart was nearly in palpitations. _He couldn’t have been wrong. He had to not be wrong._

Pete’s expression plummeted from surprise into suspicion. “Is this some kind of trick? You’re going to smear my name around town? I’ve got a reputation to uphold. I wouldn’t hurt Peg.”

Pete reached forward, wrenching open the buttons on Mortimer’s sportscoat, slipping it off his shoulders and palpating its pockets before letting it fall to the ground. _He’s stripping me,_ Mortimer thought in a blur of panic mixed with an indecent amount of thrill—but Pete only ran his hands down Mortimer’s sides with the most businesslike of strokes, patted his pants-pockets. Looking for hidden wires, or a tape recorder.

The practicality of Pete’s intentions didn’t lessen the intensity of the feeling of his hands running over Mortimer’s torso. Mortimer felt himself blush in a distinct rising red line, like in some old movie.

When Pete looked up from his search, he saw Mortimer’s face. His frown vanished. “You really mean it.”

“Eh,” Mortimer was still trying to play it casual, far too late. “I’ve got my own reputation, don’t I? And you’re the one who seems to have experience with… whatever this is.” He took a steadying breath. “I’m curious. So… Just once. That’s all I’m asking. And afterwards it’ll be like it never happened. What do you say?”

A chuckle rumbled up from inside Pete’s chest. Then he was laughing openly, draping a heavy hand over his eyes. Mortimer shrank inside. Here was that derision he’d feared from the beginning.

“I have a _wife_ ,” Pete bellowed through his laughter, his voice breaking high on the last word. Then all at once, he turned matter-of-fact. “I have to get her go-ahead first.” He pulled out his flip-phone and dialed.

Mortimer could only stand there, stunned into stillness.

The length of a couple of rings passed, and then Pete spoke, his voice warm, pleased, solicitous. “Cupcake! Ey, how you doing? Mm-hmm. Yep, I’m still at work. I _uh_ … got something to run by you.”

He glanced at Mortimer. “I may have _uh_ … landed a… _guy_. …Aw _shucks_ …” He smiled bashfully. “For… right now. …Yeah. I know him pretty well. Maybe _too_ well, _heh_. …It’s kind of a long story, but would it be okay if I got home later tonight?” He gave Mortimer a long side-eye that swept him head-to-toe. “Not too late.”

Pete’s ears perked and he gave a quick nod. “Oh yeah! Good thinking, Creamsicle!” He drew his ear away from the phone. “Ey, Mort? When’s the last time you got tested?”

Mortimer tilted his head.

Pete gestured with an impatient, open hand. “STDs, man.”

“Oh!” Mortimer said. “I dunno… last year? … Year before that, maybe?”

“Have you gotten laid since?”

“ _Pfft._ Yeah, plenty times,” Mortimer shrugged, boastful.

Pete looked disappointed. Not disdainful, not mocking, not angry, just _disappointed_. His hand dropped ever-so-slightly, pulling the phone away from his ear. Then he gave Mortimer a hard squint.

Mortimer’s whole body sagged with resignation. “No. Not once.”

Pete smiled and spoke into the phone again. “All set. See you later tonight, Cinnamon Bun.” He nodded. “Sure thing. Love you.” He put on a saccharine pout. “No, I love _you_ more.”

Mortimer rolled his eyes. Seeing Pete press the end-call button, he couldn’t resist a barb.

“Spending Christmas having a tryst in the office with some guy? Thought you were a family man.”

Pete’s mouth twisted. He spoke low. “P.J. and P… the kids—they’re away for the holidays. With college friends. Neither of them wanted to celebrate with their old man.” He stood with his shoulders slouched forward, looking at the phone and through-the-phone, past-the-floor, seeing something intangible.

Then he slapped the phone onto his desk with a clack of plastic against wood, and turned back to Mortimer, his sad expression evaporating. “Peg and I have been married over thirty years. Imagine that! So an hour don’t make that much difference to us. Not when I’m gonna take back a juicy story, _heh._ ” He leered, peeling off his white cotton gloves—a sure sign that things were about to get very intimate. The enormous belt that had been tangled behind the door had been only for show, part of the Santa costume—now Pete unbuckled the simple belt holding up his pants.

He was wearing baby-blue briefs. Those came off too, without ceremony. Now he was wearing the undershirt and crew socks, and nothing else. Save what appeared to be a knee support sleeve on one leg—Mortimer entertained an uncharitable thought about Pete’s weight and weak joints.

“Knock yourself out,” Pete said, as if he were offering a turn at a video game rather than his dick. And there he stood.

Mortimer checked him out, feeling… frankly, underwhelmed. For one thing, he wasn’t sure exactly what he had been hoping for, but somehow it wasn’t what he was seeing, which was just an average-sized, normal-looking dick.

That was the thought he let into the front of his mind, anyway.

In the back of his mind, his id whined for what it really wanted. Another kiss. More than that, he wanted to be grasped again, held and squeezed. To be pushed against the wall would be nice. But most of all—and here his ego and id were in perfect agreement—he didn’t want to be the one to take initiative.

Pete noted his hesitation with a raised eyebrow. Misinterpreted it. “Angle too hard on your knees? Here, I’ll make it easier on ya’.”

Back around the table he went, pulling the office chair around, the wheel on one of the legs jammed and scraping against the floor. He sat, knees spread apart.

Steeling his resolve with a long breath drawn through his nose, Mortimer crouched down, scooted forward. He’d asked for this, so... he couldn’t very well back out now… could he? He had come to assume there was a way _these things_ were _supposed_ to work. But now, experiencing the game from another side, as it were... and seeing Pete, gruff and tacky _Pete_ , approach it with responsibility, with sober thought and deliberate care… Mortimer’s old assumptions felt sordid.

He placed one hand on either of Pete’s shins.

One of his hands said _something’s off_. It took several seconds for Mortimer’s conscious mind to interpret what his hand was feeling. It was the leg with the knee sleeve… below the knee, the texture and tone of the black fur differed from the other leg. And beneath the fur, the calf was flatly room-temperature, rigid, without the give of flesh. _A prosthesis_. He looked up into Pete’s face.

“Yup. Fake.” Pete confirmed, anticipating his question.

Mortimer tilted his head, his next question going unsaid.

Pete anticipated that one too, and answered. “There I was, deployed in the desert.” His voice swelled with oratory drama; he swept a hand out in front of him to indicate the vista. “You know, where it’s flat and immense and the heat is intense. We’d heard reports of enemy combatants massing just behind the next dune…” He paused, peeked down at Mortimer out of the corner of one eye. “… and then we saw them! A troop of emus…” Seeing unbroken rapt attention, he snorted and smirked. “Nope. No story. Just born without it.”

He huffed out a chuckle as Mortimer directed a sour look up from between his knees. “Hey. I knew an emu once,” Mortimer said, unconsciously touching fingertips to the side of his jaw.

He turned back to the task in front of him. Before second thoughts could get the better of him, he leaned in and took Pete’s dick into his mouth.

It was… just as anticlimactic as his first impression had suggested. It reminded him of nothing so much as the game he and his friends used to play in college, when they’d shove jumbo marshmallows into their mouths and try to say “fluffy bunny.” Awkward. Inoffensive, though, compared to what his defensive disgust reflexes had led him to believe. Soft… wait… way too soft for what was happening.

He glared upwards. “You’re not into this at all, are you?”

Pete met his eyes. “I’m not into _you_ ,” he said, face nonchalant but for that familiar trace of a wicked gleam, “So you’re just going to have to work harder at it.”

Mortimer pulled back, feeling a hint of genuine, deep frustration despite himself. “I _knew_ it. You just wanted to humiliate me.”

Pete’s eared pricked forward. He leaned in and down, giving Mortimer his full attention. “You think giving head is humiliating?” he said, voice soft.

All at once, Mortimer was aloft. Pete had scooped him up, hands under his armpits, effortlessly, and was setting him on top of the desk. No. He twisted his torso a half-turn, clearing a shelf-top littered with empty thermoses and paper coffee-cups and powerbar wrappers, one sweep of his forearm sending all the junk topping to the ground, the empty plastic and paper landing in near-musical thuds and whuffs.

Then he was grabbing Mortimer by the waist, lifting him as if he were weightless, setting him on top of the shelf so that he was seated, hips about level with Pete’s shoulders at standing-height. Pete put his hand to the fly of Mortimer’s pants. Undid the top button with a flick of his thumb. Looked up and waited.

Mortimer’s head swam; partially at unexpectedly seeing the room from this angle, more from the delighted cries of his id at finally starting to get what it wanted, and most of all from a sudden rush of blood out of his head and into his groin.

“Yuh,” he slurred.

That was all the encouragement Pete needed. He pulled down Mortimer’s trousers and underpants together, peeling them to his knees and then right off his feet with swift easy gestures; one of his socks snagged in the fabric and came off too. Shrugging Mortimer’s legs over his shoulders, grasping his hips with both hands, Pete took him deep into his mouth.

Mortimer cried out, guttural and shameless, as the first wave of sensation washed through him. _Damn,_ but Pete knew what to do with his tongue.

As the first piercingly-sweet shocks flowed into a steady slow swell of pleasure, and Pete fell into a rhythm, Mortimer caught his breath and discovered he had clutched at one of Pete’s ears. He looked at it, small and sharply triangular against his palm.

Mortimer noticed other men’s ears. He wouldn’t admit it, but he did. _That’s gay,_ he’d always admonished himself… a bit of a moot point now, given the circumstances… but leaning into that line of thought had always only been a way of avoiding the real reason: insecurity over his own ears. Most days it seemed like everywhere he looked he saw the perfect twinned circles of the classic mouse-ear shape… not least on the head of his chief rival… while his own were oddly ellipsoid, offputtingly off-model.

He’d assumed that Pete was a dog, and that his ears had been cropped. Sure, nowadays the practice was banned in many places—but back in the day, and in an old military/police dog family, it may well have been an accepted practice. Mortimer had been so sure of his assumption that he’d even imagined what Pete’s ears would have looked like uncropped: long and droopy? Fluffy little pom-poms? But now as he absently rubbed the soft edge between his fingers, he felt that it was unscarred—the shape was natural. Cat’s ears. So… he didn’t want to think too stereotypically, but… he’d just put his dick in a cat’s mouth. That was a little unsettling… and, honestly, _thrilling._

He didn’t have much time to spend on such thoughts. Or any thoughts at all, really. Pete seemed to have an uncanny sense of when to slow down and speed up, when to take it deep and when to focus on the head with the tip of his tongue. He gave head rougher than Mortimer was used to, but kept just enough gentleness to keep it from getting uncomfortable. But above that, he went at it with an enthusiasm that Mortimer had seldom seen before—not the exaggerated show of an actress in a porno so much as the focus of a craftsman.

He wasn’t doing it begrudgingly, not at all. Pete was genuinely enjoying what he was doing. The realization struck a chord of arousal in Mortimer, setting it thrumming.

It was all too hot. Mortimer’s tail twisted and lashed against the shelf-top, his heels dug into Pete’s back, as he tried to hold on and savor the peak for a few moments more. But suddenly, too soon, he hurtled past the point of no return. His hand gripped Pete’s ear again, spasmodically, holding his head in close as he gasped out a string of syllables he couldn’t hear, his vision and hearing gone fuzzy in the rush of his climax.

He regained his senses at the feeling of one of Pete’s hands supporting his torso, holding firm so that he wouldn’t slip off his high perch as his body relaxed into post-climax bliss.

“You could give a guy some warning,” Pete said, without malice, rubbing the back of his other hand against his mouth.

 _He swallowed it. Just like that_. Mortimer felt a pulse of fresh arousal at the thought, even through the nervelessness of his refractory period.

Pete swept him down from the shelf, set his feet on the ground. Mortimer’s legs were weak with endorphins and his knees almost buckled—he leaned forward against Pete, head coming to rest sideways against his chest, the bulk of him solid and comforting. Pete let him; not pushing him away, not embracing him… just leaving him be. They stood like that for several seconds.

Then Mortimer let his inertia carry him the rest of the way to the floor. It hadn’t been the comfort of his knees that had prevented him from kneeling in front of Pete earlier; just his compunctions; his habitual way of thinking about what was good and what was shameful, what he wanted and what he didn’t. But given what had just happened, he found—to no little surprise—that he _wanted_ to do to Pete what Pete had just done to him.

And from a lower angle he could see that Pete wanted it as much as he did… he could no longer doubt that Pete found giving head arousing. Mortimer leaned in again, committed fully this time, and took Pete’s erection into his mouth—and realized that it had only seemed small-ish before in comparison to the rest of Pete.

That look Mortimer had seen on Pete’s face as he’d been pinned high on the shelf, that focus and appreciation… he wanted that. He would take that, he would give that, with fervor and intensity and…

“Oof! Easy,” Pete grunted.

With fervor and intensity… and a _little_ sensitivity and patience.

…Or a _lot_ of patience. Mortimer’s lips began to tire. Still Pete stood, occasionally making a hum of encouragement or groan of appreciation deep in his chest, otherwise unmoved.

Mortimer’s lips slackened involuntarily with fatigue. He sat back, huffed in impatience, looked up. Met Pete’s quizzical glance peeking down over the swell of his belly.

“Are you uh… close?” Mortimer ventured.

“You’re doing a fine job,” Pete replied, sounding blandly encouraging, as if he were supervising a wallpapering project.

“How long is this gonna take?” Mortimer asked, cringing at the whine that crept into his voice.

Pete looked at him for a second, and guffawed. “Stamina. Ever heard of it?”

Mortimer grimaced and massaged at his lips. And had an idea. “Hey, so… Earlier, I said that I wanted to make this thing a one-and-done. So if that’s the case… I should try it all while I’ve got the chance, shouldn’t I?”

Pete cocked his head. “Meaning…?”

“You know…” Mortimer couldn’t bring himself to name orifices. He raised his hands, circled thumb and index finger, and began to raise his other index finger to penetrate the shape; got embarrassed and let his hands drop. “The whole enchilada.”

Pete inclined his chin in understanding. “I don’t usually call my dick an enchilada, but sure. I’d be down.” He enunciated deliberately. “…For anal.”

Mortimer cringed again.

“If you’re gonna do it you should be able to say it. Geez,” Pete scoffed.

“But how, _uh, down_ , are you… really?” Mortimer asked. Thinking it over, warming to his idea, he gave Pete a pointed, calculating look. “You wanna let me… uh… take the man’s role?”

Pete frowned disapprovingly. “We’re both men. That’s kind of the point here.”

“You know what I mean,” Mortimer said again, frustration giving his voice a rough edge.

Pete just looked at him steadily, waiting.

Mortimer drew in a long breath and spoke deliberately. “Would you bottom? For me. To top. You.”

Pete gave him another long look. A different type of look; one that he’d probably give to a steak filet before sending it back to a restaurant kitchen. A look that said, _You are not nearly enough for my appetite._

“Not really in the mood for that tonight,” Pete said. And then added, “I’m good with my wife.”

Embarrassment gave Mortimer’s voice a hint of squeal as he curled his lip and lashed back. “Oh sure, it’s not humiliating to take a dick. That’s what you say. But as soon as you might be the one taking, it’s all,” He flared his fingers in mockery, “‘Ooh, my wife. All I want is my wife.’”

Pete blinked at him, brow furrowed. “Uh… no. I mean my wife does it.”

Now Mortimer blinked and frowned, and echoed in confusion. “Your wife?”

“Peg.”

“Peg does what?”

Pete’s cheeks turned a delicate pink. His eyes shone and his lips pressed together, as he shivered with a withheld laugh. He chewed over the word before unleashing it, drawing out the suspense.

“ _Peg!_ ” He roared with laughter.

Mort had been prepared to take it up the ass at some point this evening. He was _not_ prepared for puns.

“Okay, fine. I’ll be the bottom.” He sputtered. “We gonna do this or not?”

Pete wheezed out a few more laughs as he rose, went to a filing cabinet across the room. He opened the lowermost drawer with a key and took out a bottle of lube—along with a chain of condom packages, which he brought close to his eyes; squinting, he let it fall back into the drawer. Turning to open another cabinet, he took out an army blanket the texture and color of dryer lint.

As Pete spread the blanket over his desktop, he set down the bottle of lube. Mortimer noticed that it looked rather depleted.

“Lot of, uh… playmates… you’ve had in here, huh?” He asked, not sure if he wanted to sound disdainful or impressed. Anything but what he really felt about the revelation, which was: intimidated.

“Barely any,” Pete replied, distracted, tugging at the blanket to straighten out a fold. “Kinda hard making that connection. Peg, though? She’s never lacking for interested people. Gets to be choosy. She’s a woman of taste… picked me, didn’t she?” He chuckled. “If you knew her, you’d understand.”

Satisfied with the lay of the blanket, Pete straightened up, a schmoopy half-grin on his face. His smile disappeared when he saw Mortimer’s thoughtful expression.

“Hey! Stop thinking about my wife!” he barked.

All Mortimer had managed to imagine so far was a sort of collage made of a massive pair of boobs and Pete’s face, so he was happy enough to not think about it anymore. But having banished that thought from his mind, another uncomfortable thought rose to take its place.

“Wait, so does that mean… you jack off in your office?”

Pete gave a casual _mea culpa_ shrug.

“So your wife’s all that, but she doesn’t satisfy you?” Mortimer’s question was half-roast, half genuine bafflement.

“Do you drive?” Pete asked, after a momentary pause.

“Of course I can drive.”

“Not _can_ you, do… nevermind. Nobody does anymore. Too many cars on the road. Too much rush.” Pete’s mouth twisted for a moment, lost in memory. Then he extended his fingertips to punctuate his explanation. “Sometimes when you’re driving, you’ve got somewhere to be, and you know the most sure-fire way to get there. Right? And then sometimes you’re in the mood for sightseeing, exploring new places maybe; you’ve got your sweetheart leaning up under your arm, you’re taking your time. And then…” he leered, “… sometimes you just want to push that pedal to the floor.”

Mortimer raised an eyebrow, more turned on than he wanted to admit. “Okay, so… am I going to get some of that, uhhh, _pedal_ or whatever anytime soon? Or are we just gonna keep talking about it all night?”

“Sure thing, Speed Racer,” Pete needled. His expression lapsed from playfulness back into seriousness. “Uh… got a condom? I wasn’t expecting… The ones in my drawer all expired.”

“Uh… yeah…” Mortimer looked around the room, retrieved his jacket from where Pete had dropped it earlier, pulled out his wallet, unzipped it and pulled out a condom. “It… It was for me, though. Might not… uh… fit you.” He found himself blushing.

Pete took it between thumb and forefinger, looked at the packaging. “No, this’ll work.” Then his eyes widened. And then his brow lowered to shadow his eyes. He glared at Mortimer, without any of the playfulness or bravado he’d directed his way earlier in the evening. “You absolute shit,” he said, voice flat. “To hell with your ego. Snug fit means it won’t fall off, asshole.”

“Oh,” was all Mortimer managed in response.

The chair was rolled back against the desk, where Pete’s foot had nudged it as he had lifted Mortimer earlier. Now Pete felt behind him with one hand, found it, pulled it to him with a groan from the jammed wheel, slumped into the seat. Pete’s expression had become closed-off; his eyes were cast low, at a corner of the room that contained not much of anything.

Mortimer stood, watching him silently, suddenly unmoored. With a woman he thought he knew what to do; he had learned it from countless hours of viewing media, and a little bit of trial and error… even if that had always been mostly error. But what was he supposed to do when a man started acting… moody? He’d gotten a cold shoulder from Pete plenty of times before, but that had been a completely different context; simply getting ignored out of annoyance was something Mortimer knew well. He wasn’t going to be brushed off now, though.

“What? What did I do?” he asked.

“Not about you,” Pete muttered, still looking away. There was an uncomfortable pause.

Was Pete playing some sort of game? Games, Mortimer thought he knew; but this sure didn’t feel like some simple round of hard-to-get. And given how their roles for the encounter looked to be shaking out, shouldn’t _Pete_ be pursuing _him_ , and he be the one putting up resistance? It was all so confusing. And frustrating. Maybe he should try a physical approach?

Mortimer walked close to Pete, taking smooth steps, and bent his lanky frame close. This whole situation had started with a kiss; maybe he could get it re-started with another. He leaned in, as gentle as he had ever been. But when their faces became close, lips just about to touch, Pete turned his face away and leaned back to avoid Mortimer, body language cold.

But he started talking again, at least. “What are we doing?” Pete said in a dark undertone that sounded more rhetorical than genuine.

“Eh? Do you want me to say more anatomical words? ‘Cause I got anatomical words. Check this out… Prostate.”

“Quit it,” Pete pushed Mortimer to arm’s-length with one hand, fingers splayed across his chest. “I’m talking about reasons. Wrong reasons.” He finally made eye contact; his eyes held bitterness. “I forced myself on you. That’s what you said.”

“I guess I did say that,” Mortimer ventured, unhappy with how this was playing out. “But then I…”

“And then I said, I did it just for payback. To punish you.” Pete thrust his face forward, eyes intense, teeth clenched. “Or maybe I’m just using you to get my rocks off. Didya think about _that_?”

Mortimer only knew that he’d walked into the room full of conflicting impulses, more than half hoping to get sent right back out again… and instead he’d had an experience that he had thoroughly enjoyed, that had blown his horizons wide. And now that it looked like the chance to experience more was about to be taken away, he wanted it even more.

 _“Pfffft,_ ” he punctuated the dismissive sound with a wave of his hand.

Pete stared at him, aghast.

Mortimer held up both hands in a placating gesture. “Wait, wait. Let me talk.” He dropped his hands. “I know you’ve hated me since day one. And you know, I never could stand you either.”

He paused to collect his thoughts. Pete raised an eyebrow and spoke, his normal low mutter spiked with confusion. “This your way of trying to seduce me?”

“Yes!” Mortimer exhaled, surprising himself. _Well, whatever._ He’d say what he felt, shame be damned. He didn’t have much dignity to lose at this point, anyway. Not when he’d already been reduced to standing around like a fool with his dick hanging out, wearing nothing but a turtleneck, gloves, and one sock.

“Listen! All that stuff we said before; whatever. I don’t care anymore. All I care about now is that what we just did”—he gestured to the shelf where Pete had sat him and sucked him off—“was amazing. It was…” he flexed his fingers in the air in front of him, trying to grasp words sufficient to describe what he’d felt, and failing. “… hot cha cha.”

Pete cringed; but in the familiar way Mortimer had seen countless times before. That was encouraging.

“So…” Pete rumbled, “… you’re saying you still want it… like that? You sure?”

“Hell’s bells,” Mortimer spat. “ _Yes._ Will you just fuck me already?”

And Mortimer was swept up a second time.

He let out a _whoop_ of delight as his back landed on the army blanket on the desktop, as Pete’s mouth came down at the soft place where neck joined shoulder. Real sexy there, _Mort—sounds like you’re riding a log flume_ , he chided himself. This called for some appropriate noises.

“Yes. Oh yesssss. Yeeeees!” he moaned, as Pete kissed down his torso, paused along the way to flick at a nipple with his tongue and nip it lightly when it hardened— _that_ was a new sensation—continued on down his belly.

Pete glanced up from hip-level. “Noisy. Geez. I get the picture.”

Mortimer scrunched his nose at him. He put his hand between Pete’s ears, directed his head back down to his body. Pete chuckled against Mortimer’s belly, vibrations tickling; Mortimer snickered too, delighted.

By now Mortimer was hard again; he felt an electric frisson as Pete’s mouth neared his dick… hovered just over it for the space of two heartbeats… moved on to kiss along his thigh instead, _the bastard._

Pete looked up and smiled at him. Reached for the bottle of lube. Poured some into the palm of his hand; coated one finger, two fingers. “You ready?”

Mortimer nodded.

He winced as Pete’s first finger entered to the first knuckle and stopped. It wasn’t painful as much as it was… weird.

“S’okay. Relax. I’ll go slow,” Pete encouraged.

Mortimer took a deep breath and let it out, willing his body to un-tense. The discomfort eased. Sensing the change, Pete slid his finger in a little further, waited. And then again, a little further.

“Hhnnn-oooh!” Mortimer cried out, eyes popping at a sudden piercing pang of pleasure.

“You like that?” Pete grinned at him, moved his fingertip against the spot it had just found. Mortimer only moaned, a visceral sound completely unlike the showy cries from minutes earlier.

Now Pete took Mortimer’s erection into his mouth, running his tongue around the head as he continued the caressing motions with his finger. Mortimer’s moans went quiet, his eyes squeezed shut, as he focused on the new sensations with something like wonder. Every touch against that hidden spot sent a bolt of sweetness straight to his dick, and simultaneously somewhere else, a previously-undiscovered place deep inside of him. Pete added a second finger, moving both. Mortimer took a deep, slow breath, willing his body to relax even more to accommodate the increase in pressure, the feeling of fullness; vulnerable, trusting, he felt like he was slipping into a blissful trance.

Pete only kept it up for a minute or two. And that was a _good_ thing, Mortimer thought abstractly in some remaining logical shred of his mind; it wouldn’t have taken much more of that before it’d be all over for him. Then Pete removed his mouth with a pop, and pulled out his fingers, slowly.

With eyes shut, his body crying out for the stimulation to return, Mortimer heard the rustle of foil packaging, the subtle sound of latex being unrolled.

Pete loomed over him, moved in close.

“Haieee-ach-ach-ah” Mortimer yelped.

“But I haven’t…” Pete sputtered, before realizing what had happened. He’d been focusing on his own erection and lost track of Mortimer’s; when he’d moved in so that Mortimer was straddling him, his belly had landed awkwardly and half-squashed Mortimer’s dick. Pete used his hands to lift his belly, as gracefully as a Southern belle arranging her skirts, to give Mortimer a chance to re-position himself.

Then he lined up. “Okay. Ready? Here goes.”

Mortimer squinted up at him. “You couldn’t have thought of something a little sexier to s— _ahh_ hhnnnn…”

Pete pushed in halfway. Waited a few moments, watching Mortimer’s face carefully. Pushed in all the way. Began to thrust. Mortimer moaned. The pleasure started deep within him and radiated outwards, making his toes curl, making his chest and face flush and sweat, his hands prickle with a sensation like pins and needles—

“My hands are tingling? Are they supposed to be tingling?” he babbled. “You’ve fucked up my nerves, haven’t you? You bruised my spine with your huge dick. I’m gonna collect so much insurance money…”

Pete grunted, voice distant as he focused on his own sensations. “I think I liked it better when you were sucking me off. You couldn’t talk stupidness then.”

One of Pete’s hands landed on the table next to Mortimer’s head, supporting the weight of his leaning body. The other hand grasped Mortimer’s shoulder, holding his torso steady, fingers in a tight grip, just on the near side of painful. He began thrusting in earnest. Mortimer tilted his head back, all words swept away.

After a few minutes of this, Pete spoke around panting breaths, voice low and tight. “You might wanna… jerk yourself off.”

Mortimer held out a hand, wordlessly. It took Pete a moment to understand what he wanted and pour lube into Mortimer’s palm.

It was yet a new level of intensity, the two types of stimulation combined. Mortimer timed his strokes to Pete’s thrusts, moans escaping his throat out of turn. Having already had an orgasm, he found he could be more patient about his second release, was able to savor the feeling of it approaching, promising a deeper and stronger climax, building inside of him gradually...

Pete thumped the desk next to Mortimer’s head with an open, erratic palm. Incongruously, the first frame of reference to pop into Mortimer’s mind was sports: _He’s tapping out?_ And then he realized, _He’s gonna…_

“Wait!” Mortimer squeaked. “Don’t come! I’m not there yet!”

Pete stopped, panting, mouth slightly agape. Mortimer saw his body twitch.

“Keep going!” Mortimer said, his hand-strokes speeding up, becoming almost frenzied.

“Pick one,” Pete growled, his deep voice spiked with a high, frantic note. He drew in a long, slow breath through his nose, let it out with a hiss. Waited, holding still. “Okay,” he breathed, just barely on the edge of hearing and haltingly started thrusting again.

From the very beginning, Pete had represented power in Mortimer’s eyes. His ownership of the club. His fortitude in moving forward, no matter what misfortune he encountered. His sheer physicality, imposing and strong. But now Pete had been brought to a place of weakness, barely able to keep control of his own body. And _Mortimer_ had taken him there.

The thought took him over the edge. He felt the strength of the orgasm in his core, in the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet, in his teeth.

Gasping, Mortimer returned to the present, riding sweet aftershocks. Left sensitive by his orgasm, Pete’s continued thrusting was going to become uncomfortable in a few seconds—but given the way Pete’s hips stuttered, he wasn’t going to last that long.

 _Hrrng,_ Pete grunted, with a mis-timed, strong thrust. The blanket slid against the desktop, moving Mortimer back a couple of inches. _Eh-eh_ , Mortimer chuckled, watching Pete through a blissful haze.

Pete grasped Mortimer’s hips with both hands. His next thrust pushed the blanket—pushed Mortimer himself—back again, much farther this time. Mortimer’s smile fell as his head dropped right off the back of the desk. His wide eyes took in the wall of the room, upside-down, bookshelves hanging from the ceiling, as his pelvis was lifted clear off the desk, Pete’s hands gripping his hips hard. Mortimer’s own hands sprang up to grasp unevenly at Pete’s fingers.

Practically upside-down, his legs wrapped around Pete’s back, his ears pointed towards the floor and his toes turned towards the ceiling, Mortimer heard a viscerally deep _HNNnnngh_ come from somewhere above him.

Still hanging in that position, Mortimer heard Pete gasp; heard his breathing start to return to normal. He glanced up along his body. A drop of sweat rolled from Pete’s temple and down around his chin; dropped onto Mortimer’s exposed lower belly, landing icy-cold against his flushed warmth.

Pete lowered him back down onto the desktop, vertebra-by-vertebra, gently so he wouldn’t be bruised. Mortimer started to raise his head up fully.

And then Pete pulled out, a little too quick. A wave of nausea washed through Mortimer; he closed his eyes and let his head drop back again, swallowing against the force of gravity.

Eyes still closed, he heard the shuffle of Pete’s sock-clad feet against the floor. Heard the snap of latex being tied into a knot; the _whoosh_ of tissues drawn from a box; the rustle of crumpled paper in a waste bin. Finally, that familiar scrape and groan of the wooden office chair, one last time.

Mortimer pulled himself upright and took stock. His turtleneck shirt was a mess; he had done that, _urgh_. He scooted along the desk, gingerly stepped down, reached and found the tissues himself.

Pete, sitting bonelessly, looking at the floor under drooping eyelids, didn’t look at him.

Mortimer cleaned up as best he could. Found his underpants, his trousers, his jacket… put them all on, fastening all buttons and zippers with care.

It must be very late at night by now. Good. Illogical as it may be, Mortimer had an anxious feeling that anybody who saw him would be able to tell what he had just been doing.

Or what he wanted to do, now. It was cheesy, but he wanted to cuddle. He wanted to curl up naked against Pete’s chest and drowse. He wanted to feel Pete’s soft ears between his fingers again, cradle his head between his hands. He wanted to kiss him once more, and this time softly, tenderly.

_Ergh. That’s pathetic._

Instead, Mortimer walked to the door. Didn’t turn until he had his hand on the doorknob.

“Hey… thanks,” he said. Some part of his brain churned out corny parting lines, but he kept them all at bay; he’d certainly said enough embarrassing things tonight.

Pete hadn’t moved a muscle; the slouch of his posture showed exhaustion. He looked at Mortimer and gave a little nod. Smiled. It was a genuine smile—not the smirk, not the leer, not the trollish grin. A smile that said, _You’re welcome,_ and _Thank you,_ and maybe even _You’re alright with me._ But still just a smile.

 _Well._ That was that. Mortimer had said that it would be. He wasn’t going to go back on what he’d said, not now.

He exited and, softly, with great care, shut the door behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Carys, who beta-read this fic with patience, an open mind (haha), and an exacting eye for detail and phrasing, and made it much better than its first draft.


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